Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm a Taxi Driver in a Town Called Nowhere | Scary Stories

Episode Date: April 5, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioarts Original YouTube link: I'm a Taxi Driver in a Town Called Nowhere. We have 3 STRANGE RULES.        Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTube Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I bet you're not used to all this snow, huh? Didn't expect it to come down this hard. That's how it is out here. One minute the roads are clear. Next, you are buried up to your knees. Toe truck's on its way, though. Shouldn't be much longer now. Sorry to pick you up from the airport only for us to get stuck here,

but that's just nowhere for you. Yeah, that's the name of the town. Nowhere. I know how it sounds a little dramatic, maybe even a little cliche. But it wasn't meant to be. The old settlers named it after some Nordic word. It meant something important, I'm sure.

But nobody remembered what? Over time, people just started calling it nowhere, and it stuck. Fitting name, really. We're tucked up in the mountains, cut off for most of the world. The kind of place that doesn't show up on maps, unless you're looking real close. Winners here are long, brutal. The kind that bury cars, freeze pipes, make you think twice before stepping outside. It snows so much that sometimes, even in summer, you'll see kids building snowmen in the streets.

Life here, it's simple. It has to be. People live off the land, ice fishing, trading, doing what they can to get by. There's not much in the way of modern conveniences. Cell reception's bad. Wi-Fi is worse, and if you need something from outside, you wait months for the supply truck. But the food's warm, the people are good most of the time, and I would not trade it for anything. I've been here my whole life. I was born in nowhere, grew up in nowhere, and I will probably die in nowhere. That's just how it is for folks like me. I learned how to fish before I learned how to read, spent my childhood.

bundled up in three layers, carving paths through waist-deep snow. My dog, lucky, was just a pup back then. He's older now, a little slower, but his fur is still black as night. In all this white, he's like a little ink blot against the snow. Easy to spot from miles away. You'd probably like it here. Most people do, at first. They come for the festival.

That is our busiest time. a year. The Northern Lights Festival. It's what keeps this town running. Brings in money, keeps the lights on, people from all over come just to see the sky glow to feel like they've found something special. But nowhere has its secrets. Most of them are old. So old, they're not worth mentioning. Just stories pass down from people who've been dead, longer than any of us have been alive. but some things, the important things, those don't get forgotten, especially now this time a year. See, when the festival comes, so do other things, things that don't show up in the brochures, things that don't get talked about once you leave. There are rules here. I don't expect you to

believe me. Most tourists don't, at least not at first. They laugh at all. I think it's just some small town superstition. A way to make the place feel more mysterious. That's fine. You don't have to believe me. But you do have to listen because you're here now. And in nowhere, things go bump in the night. Now the festival.

It's supposed to be a celebration. Once a year, right in the dead of winter, when the night stretched long in the cold sinks, deep. The whole town comes alive. The streets glow with lanterns. The market fills with stalls, selling hot cider and carved charms. And people gather in thick coats.

Their faces turn to the sky. The auroras are the main event. Waves of green, purple and blue, stretch across the night, moving slow and steady. Like something alive. They ripple, fade. brighten again, a silent dance above the frozen land.

No matter how many times you see them, they never lose their wonder. The tourists come for the lights, and the locals do too. It's a rare thing to see something so perfect, makes you feel small in the best way, like the world is bigger than you ever imagined. My grandfather used to tell me stories about the festival. He believed that auroras weren't just, lights. They were souls, the highway of the dead, carrying spirits from this world to whatever lies beyond. He said that dying under the Aurora guaranteed your soul a safe journey, that the sky reached

down and carried you away before you could get lost. I don't know if it's true, but I have never forgotten the way he said it, like it was something sacred, like it was something that had always been. I think about him a lot this time of year, my grandmother too. They're both gone now, but when the lights come, I feel like they're close. I always go to the festival, not just for the crowds, not for the music or the market stalls. I, well, I go for myself. I set up a tent away from town, somewhere quiet. Where the snow stretches untouched for miles, I drill a hole in the ice, drop my fishing line, and let the silence settling around me. Lucky sits beside me, his black fur stark against the snow,

ears perked listening to the distant sounds of the festival. And above us, the sky moves. I watched the auroras shift and breathe the same way my grandfather once did. the same way his father did before him. The same way people have for as long as this place has been. And for a little while, nowhere doesn't feel so empty. But even during the festival, the rules don't change, especially during the festival. And that's the first thing you need to know.

Rule number one. There are a lot of little things people in nowhere do without thinking. knocking the snow off their boots before stepping inside, leaving a pair of gloves near the door for visitors, leaving a lantern by the window, even when the power is working just fine. And then there's this. When visiting someone, whether it's a friend's house, a shop, a bar, or even the late-night convenience store, you always wrap on the door and say, person here. It's just how it's done. You'll see it everywhere if you're paying attention. A fisherman coming back from the docks, wrapping on the frame of the bait shop before stepping in.

A group of friends knocking once before ducking into a bar to escape the cold. Even at the general store, regulars do it without thinking. Tapping on the wood before crossing over the threshold. I do it too. Not because I think about it. Not because I remind myself to do it. It's just habit. Something I've always done. I saw my parents do it. Saw my grandparents do it. Every adult in town, every single person who lived here before me, it's just part of life in nowhere. Like waking up early in the winter to clear the paths before they ice over.

Like checking the forecast every morning, knowing it won't change much, but checking anyway. You don't question it. Tourists notice sometimes. They see us knocking and calling out, and some of them laugh. Think it's one of those quirky small-town traditions, something out of a travel documentary. And I guess to an outsider, it might look that way. They try it themselves, usually as a joke.

Wrap their knuckles against a door, grin at their friends, say the words with an exaggerated accent like their play and pretend. The shopkeepers smile. The bartender's nod, and life carries on. A lot of things in nowhere seem harmless. Most of them are. But this. This is one of those things that started for a reason. There's a story behind it. One I think you should hear. A place like nowhere holds on to its stories. Tucked between towering mountains, with skies so colds.

clear you can see every star, and forest stretching as deep and wild as the ocean. This town is built on more than just wood and stone. It's built on belief. Superstition. The kind of knowledge that doesn't come from books or schools, but from the mouths of those who've lived here long enough to understand the land. People survive out here because they listen. The mountains are old. The forests are older, and something else has always lived in them. Monsters, my grandfather used to say. Not the kind from fairy tales, not dragons or ghosts or things that crawl out of the ground. No, the ones that live here are something else.

Things with two wide smiles. Things that watch from the trees. Things that slip between the cracks of the world like water through frozen earth. The people of nowhere live in harmony with them. Always have. That's the way it's always been. A town like this doesn't last unless it learns to live with what's already here. So we follow the rules.

The same way our grandparents did. The same way their grandparents did before them. The rule you just heard. It's one of the oldest. It might seem strange to you. Notking in announcing yourself like that. It's just what we do. A habit, a greeting, something so ordinary that no one thinks too hard about it. But there's a reason for it. Buried deep in the past, passed down like an old story told over a crackling fire.

Monsters don't lie. That's what my grandfather told me. They can trick, they can cheat, they can twist words like fishermen twisting nuts. but they can never tell an outright lie what magic keeps them from doing so. Hell, I don't know. No one does. But it works. And it's why the rule exists. A town like this, small, isolated, surrounded by miles of wilderness. You can't survive if you don't trust your neighbors. Harsh winters, long nights, roads that disappear under thick No. People need each other to get through it. But how do you trust someone in a place where not everything that walks on two legs is human? You make them say it. Long ago, people started announcing themselves before stepping inside a home or a shop or any place where others might gather. A simple habit, a quick

word. Just a way to be sure a human can say it without trouble. Something else cannot. So the rule stayed. Even now, when no one really talks about why, when it's just something people do without thinking, it remains. A tradition, a piece of nowhere's history woven so deeply into daily life that no one questions it. You'll see it when you're here. You'll hear it in passing.

See it done so casually that you might forget there was ever a reason behind it. But don't forget. If you visit anywhere in town, be sure to follow the rule. Some monsters won't try to force their way in. They'll wait for you to invite them. They'll offer you things. Trinkets made of bone, coins older than any civilization, jewelry that glows under the moonlight.

They'll promise warmth on the coldest nights. Whisper of hidden places, no human has ever been. seen. Some will challenge you to a game, a simple bed, a test of skill or luck. Others will hand you a riddle, the kind that twists your thoughts and pulls at something deep inside you, something that makes you want to solve it, even when you know you shouldn't. Some are playful, more nuisance than nightmare. If you give them your time, they'll spoil your milk, tangle your fishing lines, or lead you down the wrong path until you're lost for hours. Annoying, but not deadly.

Others are worse. But whether they have wings, fangs, or claws, they all live under the same set of rules. Rules older than the town. Older than the mountains. Older than anything that walks, or breathe. And the most important one, they can't lie.

It's the only advantage you'll ever have. So, if you ever meet someone who doesn't look quite right, if they seem too beautiful, if their teeth are a little too sharp, if something about them makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, then make sure to wait for the words, person here, before letting them inside. Rule number two. There are things in nowhere that don't belong. Not in the way the monsters do.

Those have always been here. Wove in into the land itself. No, these things are different. They come from somewhere else. Though no one knows where. They slip into places they shouldn't be, waiting for someone to notice. The Wonderworld coins are one of them. You'll find them scattered around town. a coin in the size of a silver dollar painted in gold, but worthless in every way that matters. The words Wonder World LTO are stamped on the front, along with the image of a ferris wheel. They shouldn't be here. Nowhere doesn't have a Wonderworld. There's no theme park, no carnival, no business with that name.

Not now, not ever. Ask anyone, they'll tell you the same. same. The closest amusement park is miles away across frozen highways and dense forest, far beyond where these coins should exist. But you'll find them anyway. You will see them in the oddest places. Behind a dumpster, half buried in snow, balancing on the edge of a gutter, too clean to have been there long, sitting in the wire basket of an abandoned shopping cart. glinting in the dim light. And sometimes, they'll show up in places meant just for you.

Resting on the table of a coffee shop, the moment you walk in, inside the pocket of an old ski jacket you haven't worn in years. Nestled on the seat of your car, even when you are certain you lock the doors, like they're waiting for you, like they want to be found. But whatever you do, don't take them. Don't pick them up. Don't keep them in your pocket, thinking they might be interesting

souvenirs. Don't carry them home, thinking maybe, just maybe. They might be worse something after all. They aren't. No one knows where they come from. No one knows why they appear. But everyone in nowhere knows the same thing. The coins always disappear. You leave them where they are, and they'll be gone the next time you look. You throw them away, and they won't be in the trash when you check again. You toss them into the frozen leg, and someone will find one waiting for them in their coat pocket the next morning. You can't get rid of them. Not really. They move on their own. And if you take one, well, I have a story about that, too. There was once a local named Jim. Jim. Jim. Jim. was a nice man, in all the ways God counts nice men. That's what my grandfather used to say about him.

Then I believe it. He went to church on Sundays, had an honest job, and said his pleases and thank-yus. Never raised his voice in anger, never turned away a neighbor in need. If you asked most folks, they'd tell you Jim was a good man. But Jim was also greedy. Not in the way a thief is greedy, the way a man cheats or steals, but in a way that wore people down over time. He liked a haggle, always pushing, always pressing, always trying to get something for just a little less than what it was worth. It didn't matter if it was a sack of potatoes, a pair of old boots, or a jar of jam at the market. Jim would argue the price down, not because he couldn't afford it, but because he hated the thought of paying full price when he knew he could talk someone into lowering it.

It got him a reputation, especially among the shopkeepers. The grocer, in particular, could not stand him. People would roll their eyes and step aside when they saw Jim walk up to the stall, because they knew it'd be a show. Jim standing there, arms crossed, lips pursed, shaking his head, as he talked the poor man in circles over a few measly scents. They'd go back and forth for so long that some swore they could feel the seasons change before they were done.

But Jim always got his way. And then the Wonderworld coins started showing up. They weren't everywhere. Not like they are now. Back then, they were rare. Something you might find once in a while, tucked in a crack in the sidewalk or wedged between the cobblestones of Main Street. Nobody knew where they came from, but people liked them. They were strange, yeah, but they were kind of beautiful. Shiny, golden, too clean to be ordinary.

Some folks started keeping them, storing them in little boxes, setting them on shelves. A curiosity, nothing more. But Jim, Jim saw something else in them. He hoarded them. He hoarded them. them the way a crow hoards trinkets. He scooped him up whenever he found one, slipping them into his pockets, stashing them in jars, filling drawers with them until his house was littered with stacks of worthless gold. No one would take him as payment. No matter how much he tried, but Jim did not care. He was convinced they had value, convinced they were meant for something. And that's how the story goes. Jim, with his pockets full of coins, walking deep into the woods where the trees grew too close together, and the air turned still. He was looking for something. Or maybe he was following something. A trail older than the town itself, a path barely visible beneath a thick layer of snow, winding its way through the forest where no one ever went. It was there that he met the dwarf. Nobody knows what the dwarf looked like.

Some say he was small and hunched, with a beard so long it touched the ground. Others say he was nothing but a voice in the trees, a shape moving just out of sight, something that never stepped fully into the light. But everyone agrees on one thing. Jim asked him for a favor. What the favor was, no one knows. Maybe Jim asked for endless. wealth. Or maybe he asked for something more practical. Something to make his life just a little bit easier.

A bigger catch during fishing season. A guarantee that his traps would always be full. It doesn't matter. The details change depending on who tells that story, but the ending never does. The dwarf agreed to grant Jim's wish. But like all favors and old stories, there was a price. Jim had to to pay his weight in gold. And he agreed. That's the part that always gets me. Jim agreed. Maybe he thought he'd find a way out of it later.

Maybe he thought he was clever enough to trick something that had been walking these woods since before men first built their homes here. Maybe he really believed that whatever force govern the world would let him get away with it. But he didn't pay in real gold. He paid in Wonderworld coins.

Whatever happened in that moment, it didn't end well for Jim. The next week, they found him in his home, slumped over in his chair, his skin cold, his mouth slightly open, like he'd been in the middle of speaking, when something stopped him. His tongue was missing. No one collects the coins anymore. People leave them where they find them. Step over them like they aren't there. Brush them off tables and countertops without a second thought.

The old rule stands. Ignore the Wonderworld coins. Nothing good comes from keeping fake gold. Rule number three. You're here for the festival. That's what brings most people to nowhere. You want to see the northern lights. Maybe take a few pictures.

Maybe even make a wish. or two. It's a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing, isn't it? Something you can tell people about when you go home, something to carry with you forever. And you won't be disappointed. The lights are everything you've heard and more. The sky moves in slow waves, colors rippling like silk caught in a breeze. Green, blue, violet, shifting and changing, stretching from one horizon to the next. They don't make a sound, but somehow they feel loud, like they fill up something deep inside of you. Something you didn't realize was empty. It's impossible not to get caught up in the moment.

People stand in the streets. Their breath rising in clouds. Their faces turn to the sky. The whole town feels frozen in place, watching something bigger than themselves. Something ancient. You can understand why the old stories say the auroras carry souls to the afterlife. There's something about him that makes you feel like you're standing at the edge of the world, looking at something you were never meant to see.

But when the lights fade, when the sky settles into darkness again, when the festival starts to quiet down and the cold begins to creep in, that's when you have to remember the rule. Don't go home. Not yet. The locals call it shaking off the spirit. You go somewhere else first. A bar, a convenience store, a late-night cafe. Even a hot cocoa stand off the side of the road will do. But you have to stay for one hour. Doesn't matter how tired you are. How cold your fingers feel. How much you want to crawl under warm blankets and fall a sleep. You wait. You sit, sip something warm, listen to the low murmur of conversation around you. You let the night settle. Let the weight of the sky lift from your shoulders. Then, and only then. You go home. Most tourists don't think much of it. They see it as another one of nowhere's odd little traditions, like knocking on doors or ignoring strange coins, some of them even like it.

Say it adds to the charm of the place, makes them feel like they're part of something. But the rule exists for a reason. The old stories say that when the lights come, they don't come alone. And sometimes, if you go straight home after watching them, something might follow you. The northern lights are the spirits traveling on their way to the afterlife. That's what the old stories say. Most of them pass without trouble, drifting along that glowing highway in the sky, moving further and further away from this world, until there's nothing left of them but memory.

But sometimes, not all of them go. Some have unfinished business. Maybe they see a familiar face in the crowd. Maybe they hear a voice that stir something deep inside them, something that reminds them of what they left behind. Or maybe they don't even know they're dead. Not fully, not yet. Whatever the reason, they stop. They turn away from the lights, pull themselves free from the path that was meant to carry them beyond.

And they follow someone home. That's when the hauntings begin. It starts slow, mold creeping into places it shouldn't be, curling along door frames, darkening the corners of rooms where no moisture should gather. People in the house grow tired, drained by something unseen, something that presses down on them, wearing them thin. They wake up feeling worse than when they fell asleep, their strength slipping away bit by bit, their appetites vanishing until food becomes an afterthought.

They stop answering calls, stop coming into town, stop stepping outside at all. It's like something is pulling them inward, wrapping its fingers around their soul, and dragging them down into a silence that no one can break. By the time the town realizes what's happening, It's usually too late, because the thing that followed them back, it isn't their loved one anymore. It might have their face, wear their voice like an old coat, move the way they used to move, stand at just the right angle in a doorway to make someone hesitate. It might whisper their old jokes, hum their favorite song, tilt its head in that familiar way,

that makes your chest ache with grief. But make no mistake, whatever comes back from the northern lights isn't human. Not anymore. And the longer it stays, the worse it becomes. At first, it's patient. It lingers in the background,

watching, waiting, pushing just enough to remind the person it followed that it's there. A chair moved an inch to the left. A door left slightly open when it'd been shut before. Then it becomes boulder. Rooms go cold, no matter how high the heat is turned up. You hear footsteps in the attic, or doors slamming closed when no one's inside. The walls start growing mold, no matter how hard you scrub.

The house doesn't feel like home anymore. It feels like a cage. And the thing inside it is getting restless. Give it enough time, and it turns violent. It starts small the way all hauntings do. A broken glass on the kitchen floor, a picture frame crashing down in the middle of the night. Maybe it's an accident. Maybe it's nothing.

That's what people tell themselves at first. Then the accidents become something else. The ghost wants attention. If ignoring it doesn't work, it pushes harder. A shove at the top of the stairs, a forceful grip on the shoulder, a sudden pull on the wrist that sends someone sprawling across the room. People wind up with bruises, broken bones, concussions they can't explain. The injuries start as warnings.

Frustration, lashing out. a spirit angry that it isn't being acknowledged. But anger grows, and so does strength. If you're not careful, it might decide it has the right to take your life. Might decide that it can't go where it was meant to. Neither can you. Some spirits are desperate, some are lonely. Some are simply full of hate.

And when one of them reaches that point, when it's no longer just about being seen, but about pulling you down with it. There's only one thing left to do. You call someone who knows how to deal with it. An exorcist. A monster hunter. Someone who's been doing this long enough to understand the risk. The rule is simple.

If you visit the northern lights, don't go straight home. Find a third place. A bar, a convenience store, a coffee. coffee shop. Order something warm. Dunk a donut into your cup. Make small talk with a stranger. Stare out at the snow and let the night settle around you. Give whatever might be following you the time to lose interest. Let it move on and follow the rule. I have been here a long time. Same streets, same faces, same long winters that bury the town in snow. The festival, comes and goes, tourists pass through, but nowhere stays the same. And you? You've been listening

for a long time now, huh? And it looks like your ride just pulled in. Before we head out, remember the rules. They're simple, but they matter. Say you're human at the door, a quick nod, a quiet word, that's all it takes. It's not much, just a habit, just a bit of old tradition. Ignore the Wonderworld coins. You might find one waiting for you, tucked into a jacket pocket, resting on a cafe table like it belongs there. Leave it. Walk away. It's not worth keeping. Not worth carrying. Not worth whatever might come looking for it later. And don't go straight home after the festival. The lights are beautiful, but they don't come alone. Give them time to fade. Let whatever lingers lose interest.

you don't, you might find something waiting for you when you get home, something that was never supposed to stay. Most people who visit nowhere never notice these things. They come for the festival, take their pictures, buy their souvenirs, and leave without ever looking too closely at the town around them. That's good, that's safe. But now you know better. Well, come on, let's get going. The lodge isn't far and the roads are clear enough now you've got a long night ahead and the northern lights are waiting and hey if you ever need another story you know where to find me and welcome to nowhere enjoy your stay